Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Geralt has always been fairly sure that Jaskier isn't human. Okay, not always — when they'd first met in Posada, he didn't really give much thought to the bard at all. It had been interesting that he didn't smell of fear like humans tended to but, well, neither had Marilka — and fuck if that doesn't still hurt to think about, so at the time he'd stopped thinking about it altogether.

Over time, though, as it became clear that the other didn't plan on leaving his side any time soon, Geralt had started to take notice of him. It was little things at first, like how walking never bothered him (even if he complained, it was more like it was just teasing, or to fill the silence), how much more lively he was at night, how he never seemed to get hurt even when he should, how he ate less than Geralt thought a human should but never grew thin or frail because of it. Eventually he also noticed, as enough time passed, that Jaskier wasn't aging. Sometimes they would come across a town that they'd been in years before and the children were teenagers and the adults had a few more wrinkles and Jaskier... was exactly the same.

Still, his medallion never reacted to Jaskier's presence, so he never let it bother him. After all, Geralt isn't entirely human either. If Jaskier were a threat he would know, but the entire time they've known each other he's been nothing but kind and friendly. Whatever he is, it doesn't really matter, so long as he isn't hurting anyone. And it's not like he wouldn't hurt anyone, Geralt has seen him get angry. Jaskier has a vindictive streak miles wide, and when someone crosses one of his very firm but specific lines, there is no crossing back. He is almost foolishly forgiving, until someone does something that he cannot forgive. The thing is, though, he would never hurt someone for no reason, never hurt someone if he didn't truly think they deserved it, and Geralt can't fault him for that. Everyone has to have a code, and Jaskier seems to stick to his own more than most people do, so if anything he sort of admires the bard's integrity.

Their companionship — friendship, really, even if it is still difficult to admit aloud sometimes — has had its ups and downs, but it has remained strong throughout everything, throughout fights and injuries and hardships and wars. Even if he still doesn't know what Jaskier is, it's still okay, because it still doesn't matter. Of course a part of him is curious, but not enough to ask. It feels like prying into something that isn't his business, like he would be breaking an unspoken rule between them, a "don't ask, don't tell". Things are fine between them, and it wouldn't change anything, so he doesn't usually pay it any mind.

One night, though, all of that changes. He's awoken, though he isn't sure by what, and that has him immediately alert. His eyes open and in the low light he sees Jaskier, leaning over him as if he is a riddle that needs solved. When the bard notices he is awake, he scrambles back, and that has alarm bells going off in Geralt's head.

"Jask—" he starts to say as he gets up, but he is immediately stopped when Jaskier screeches.

It's not a human sound. Geralt has heard this noise before — it's the sound vampires make, the sound they use to stun. It's otherworldly — it sounds like... like broken glass, like howling winds, like the scrape of steel on stone. His hands immediately fly to cover his ears, and curiously, the screeching stops.

He looks at Jaskier — or, is it Jaskier? He's known (or suspected) that the bard wasn't human, but he can't be too careful if this is a creature pretending to be his companion. Whether this is or is not Jaskier, he looks confused, and Geralt scents the air. The only thing out of the ordinary is the sick smell of panic that clashes with the bard's scent, but it is the bard's scent. Carefully, he uncovers his ears.

Jaskier screeches again, but it's quieter. It seems like he's trying to do the vampire equivalent of whispering.

"I can't understand you," Geralt says, and Jaskier's brow furrows as he tilts his head and screeches something else. It seems as though neither can understand the other — Geralt doesn't speak the Vampire language, and Jaskier apparently can no longer understand Common speech.

The whole situation puts him on edge. How are they going to figure out what's happened if they can't communicate? Is Common the only thing that Jaskier has forgotten? He frowns back at the bard, then slowly considers: he doesn't need to speak to communicate. He points to himself, pointer finger to his sternum, then shakes his head 'no', then taps his temple with a finger, points at Jaskier, and pinches his thumb and fingers in the universal gesture for 'talking'. He does this slowly, trying to get the point across: I don't understand what you're saying.

Jaskier seems to consider this, tilting his head slightly, and then takes on a contemplative expression. Slowly, he gestures back, to Geralt's relief. He points to his own sternum as Geralt had, shakes his head 'no', taps his own temple, then points to Geralt. I don't know you.

Fuck. So, he hasn't only forgotten how to speak. Geralt signs back, pointing to himself, tapping his temple, then pointing to Jaskier. I know you.

A small frown forms on the bard's face. After a few moments of contemplation, he points to himself, shakes his head 'no', taps his temple, then points to himself again. I don't know me. That's frankly alarming. He gestures between the two of them, then tilts his head, as if to indicate a question. Who are we? or How do we know each other? Geralt thinks that is what he's trying to convey, at least.

How does he answer that without words? There are a lot of ways to describe them as individuals as well as their long and complicated history together. Thankfully, the other man gives him time to figure out how to answer this. Eventually, he gestures between the two of them, makes a walking motion with his pointer and middle finger as legs, and hooks both of his pointer fingers together. We travel together. It seems like the easiest answer to convey nonverbally, at least. He doesn't know how he would say friends, so this is the closest he can come to it.

This, too, is considered for a little while. It seems Jaskier has many questions but does not know how to pose them in this way. Geralt feels the same. What made him lose his memory? How much does he know? Will they be able to get him back to normal, or will he have to relearn everything down to who he is?

Geralt is brought out of his thoughts when Jaskier starts to move again. He slowly points to Geralt, draws his pointer finger across his own throat, points to himself again, and tilts his head. Are you going to kill me? The thought makes him sick. Jaskier apparently knows still that Geralt is a witcher, and what a witcher is — or, at the very least, as a vampire he senses that Geralt is an enemy, something to be avoided (and being thought of like that by Jaskier makes it feel like his stomach has been tied to a stone and thrown into a lake).

Without hesitation, Geralt shakes his head 'no'.

The bard frowns, then opens his mouth and points to his fangs, then tilts his head. It seems he wants to make sure that Geralt knows he is a vampire, but of course he does, so Geralt just nods.

Jaskier looks away for a moment, then nods back. Then he points to himself, draws his finger across his throat, points to Geralt, and shakes his head 'no'. I won't kill you, either. It actually makes Geralt laugh, and he nods his acknowledgement. He hadn't been worried — if Jaskier had been planning to kill him, he would have done it by now. It's almost a startling thought when he realises that he never thought Jaskier would hurt him, even when he is clearly an amnesiac vampire who, for a moment, considered him a potential threat.

Jaskier, even when they cannot physically speak, is still doing most of the talking, and it's almost comforting. Some things never change, it seems. The bard points to himself, then tilts his head. Geralt tilts his own head in return, indicating that he doesn't understand the question. As a response, Jaskier frowns, then points to himself, shakes his head 'no', taps his temple, and points to himself again. He's signed the same thing already — he doesn't know who he is. Again he points to himself and tilts his head and Geralt realises he is asking who he is.

That isn't something he knows how to answer without words. He takes a good amount of time to think about it, but he just can't. There are a lot of different things that make up who Jaskier is and most of them, he has no idea how to convey. First, he mimes strumming a lute, but when Jaskier tilts his head Geralt realises that it doesn't help, so he stands up. For a moment, something like concern flashes across Jaskier's face, but Geralt puts both of his hands up, palms out, to indicate I'm not going to hurt you, and the bard relaxes again. The witcher picks up Jaskier's lute, points at it, then points back to Jaskier. You are a bard, he hopes he can convey. Then, he gets an idea. He points to Jaskier again and very slowly and clearly says, "Jaskier."

The bard nods, seeming to understand that this is what he is called, but hesitant to try to say it. He reaches for the lute, and Geralt hands it to him, and a part of him hopes that it will spark something in his memory. Jaskier does play a few chords, slowly, but then shakes his head. He still can't remember.

Geralt sighs, then gestures between them, folds his hands together, and tilts his head onto them. We should sleep.

The thought seems to confuse the other man, who points up to the sky. Right, vampire. While Geralt knows that Jaskier can travel in the sunlight, it seems that the man in question is not so sure. After a moment of consideration, he gestures between them, makes the 'walking' motion with his fingers, points up to the sky, and then fans his fingers out in front of him. We travel in the sunlight. Jaskier tilts his head as if to say, Really? and Geralt nods, then gestures between them, makes the 'walking' motion, gestures behind himself with a thumb, and tilts his head. Do you want to leave now? It doesn't seem like the other man quite understands that, so he underlines it by gathering a few of their things, then tilting his head. Realisation dawns on Jaskier's face and he nods. It seems he would be more comfortable traveling at night, and if it means that they can get somewhere to figure this out sooner, Geralt certainly does not mind.

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Their made-up language of gestures is a little hit or miss but most of the time it works out well enough for them. They can, to an extent, convey what they need to, and for now that is enough.

A little into their journey Jaskier asks where they are going by making the 'walking' gesture, and then spreading his hands out around him. Geralt had answered something like We are going to fix your memory by gesturing between them, pointing to Jaskier, tapping his own temple, and then holding out a roll of bandages.

All things considered, he is thankful that this is not going as poorly as it could. While it's obviously not an ideal situation, Jaskier had not tried to fight him, had gone with him willingly, and they were still able to communicate to a surprising extent despite their language barrier. While he doesn't like this sudden silence from his bard (oh, and how he wouldn't have believed that decades ago) he knows that at least there is a chance that this will only be temporary.

They haven't been able to stop in too many towns, simply because people know Jaskier. He has made a name for himself, and while that would normally not be a bad thing, people would try to talk to him or expect him to perform and how would they explain that away? Besides, Jaskier has always been the one doing the talking for the two of them. People still do not trust Geralt, not really; while the bard has done wonders for his reputation, at the end of the day he is still a witcher, and witchers are still feared. So there wouldn't even be a guarantee that Geralt would be able to get them a room at an inn without some kind of complications.

Admittedly, there is also the concern that, well, Jaskier is a vampire. That was never a concern before, but now that he doesn't remember anything, Geralt doesn't know if it would be a risk to bring him around humans. Would he try to eat them? Surely he would know better, but Geralt doesn't want to risk anyone getting hurt. (He admits, but only to himself, that he is most worried about what he would have to do if the bard could not control himself, and whether he would be able to if it came to that.)

So they have been traveling, avoiding town as much as possible. Vampires are sturdy creatures, so it doesn't seem to bother Jaskier; if anything, he seems to be enjoying himself. Not long into their journey, he began strumming at his lute. Apparently he remembers how to play, though it might just be muscle memory, but he still plays. He tried to sing along, once or twice, to his own lute playing, but it wasn't the same. It was singing in the way that bruxae 'sing' — that is to say, a discordant, unearthly screeching.

It's sort of... sweet (Geralt hesitates to use that word but at the same time he can't think of a better one) that Jaskier, who loves chattering and singing even with amnesia, is imposing silence on himself just because he's noticed that Geralt's ears are too sensitive for it. It also makes Geralt feel, well, guilty. He doesn't want to keep the other man from doing what he loves, especially if it's one of the few things he can remember about himself. He wants to convey that, but he doesn't know how. It's all very frustrating, to put it mildly.

The worst part is, he doesn't even have a plan, really. He is like a ship at sea, hoping for a storm to pass but not knowing if it will succumb to the waves first. He has a tentative plan, but that's the best he's got, and he doesn't like this helpless feeling.

His 'plan' is as follows: wander until they find a mage that he knows and likes. That limits him to Triss or Yennefer, and he doesn't know exactly where they are. It's also doubly hard to find someone when you're avoiding towns and cities. He's hoping, for once, that Destiny won't keep its fat nose out of his fucking business and will lead him to one of the sorceresses, because it's the best chance they've got to fix this.

He hasn't been counting the days — there's no point. It will only torture him, really, if he lets himself think about how much time has passed without him being able to do anything productive. His only real comfort is Jaskier, and isn't it fitting that even when he is the root of the problem he is also the light at the end of the tunnel? He's always been a light in the darkness for Geralt, but now it's painful, bittersweet.

Jaskier, at his core, is no different from normal; he's still the same person, still kind and caring and too friendly for his own good. If Geralt could understand his language, he's sure that he'd find that the bard's tongue is still as sharp as a well-kept sword, too. He's constantly pointing at things for Geralt to notice, strumming his lute, trying to tell stories (though, with his hands now). He still sneaks treats to Roach whenever he gets the chance.

Geralt still thinks fondly of him, still cares about him, but now there's this ache in his chest whenever he lets himself think about it. Partly, he thinks that he just hadn't let himself contemplate it before, just taking for granted how warm Jaskier made him feel. Now he has to think about it, and it's not ideal. He thinks about how close they were, how no one before or since has ever been allowed to get that close. He thinks about the friends he has because of Jaskier, of the things he's allowed himself that he's sure he wouldn't have if not for the bard's influence.

He knows what he's feeling, though it makes him feel like he's drowning. He has felt this way for an alarmingly long time, and he's caught this traitorous little part of him — the part that's still human, that should have died long ago, that Jaskier has always nurtured even when he didn't realise it — thinking about it a few times before. Considering, even despite his best efforts to the contrary, allowing himself to love. As it turns out, it was never really an option for him to begin with. No, if love were a choice, a lot of the world's problems would not exist, but he does not allow himself to dwell on what-ifs and could-have-beens.

Now, though, it's all he can think about — and with all this newfound time for introspection, he's doing a lot of thinking about it. What is he going to do if they can't fix this? He knows that this is Jaskier, but all the time they've spent together has been wiped away, decades at least of experiences that shaped him into the person that Geralt has come to love whether he's wanted to or not. Already Geralt knows that if they can't fix this, he isn't going to abandon Jaskier — he's going to do everything he can no matter what, and if that means starting over then he will, even down to teaching him Common. He knows that he shouldn't be thinking about it, that they haven't even started yet, but it's hard not to spiral into worst-case scenarios.

A hand rests itself on his calf, and he looks down from his perch on Roach's back. Jaskier's concerned face looks up at him, and it twists something in his chest. Jaskier doesn't even know who he is, woke up one night with no memories next to a witcher, and he'd just... followed, like always. He trusts Geralt implicitly and Geralt hasn't even done anything, as far as Jaskier knows, to prove that he can. It doesn't make sense.

The hand on his leg taps against it, getting his attention back, and Jaskier tilts his head with an openly worried expression.

Geralt shakes his head, not quite sure how to convey what he's thinking — or, really, if he should. After a moment's hesitation, he taps his temple, then makes a thumbs-down motion. Bad thoughts. Jaskier nods in understanding, and it shouldn't still be so easy to understand each other. It makes the whole thing so much harder for him, somehow.

Fuck.

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They maintain their easy camaraderie, as they always have, and it comforts and tortures Geralt in equal measure. He’s taken to murmuring things to Jaskier, lately — he isn’t sure why, but it’s grounding. He never thought that he would be the one doing all the talking between them, filling silences with words, but if there is one thing that has been constant in his life it’s to expect the unexpected where Jaskier is involved. A part of him hopes that he’ll say something that will jog the other man’s memory, even though he knows that it’s probably pointless. Still, he talks, if only because he doesn’t quite know what else to do.

“Jaskier,” he says, and the bard looks at him — though if it’s because he is responding to his name, or to the sound of Geralt’s voice, he isn’t sure. “I know you can’t understand, and you probably won’t remember, but,” and then he starts to tell him something. Of the two of them, he isn’t the storyteller, but he does his best.

At first he starts with things that he thinks will jog his memory — the time they’d met, the adventures they’ve had together; Pavetta’s party, the dragon hunt, fleeing Nilfgaard’s forces, wintering at Kaer Morhen. And when he runs out of big events, he talks about the little ones; he tells Jaskier about the first time Roach had let him pet her, about when he’d started teaching Eskel to play the lute, about the time he teamed up with Yennefer to play a prank on Geralt that dyed his hair green for a week. He talks about long nights by the fire, the stories behind scars.

He isn’t quite sure when, but at some point, it starts to change from stories to little snippets of thoughts, and then to confessions. He admits that he likes Jaskier’s voice, that he doesn’t mind having flowers braided into his hair. He talks about missing Jaskier during the winter in the years they decide to part for the season, of wishing that he could follow him to Oxenfurt just once, just to see what it’s like. He talks about how much Ciri adores Jaskier, how scared Geralt is to admit that she is like a daughter to him, how scared it makes him feel to realise Jaskier is like another father to her.

Geralt talks about the way Jaskier’s eyes remind him of a cloudless midsummer sky, the way his scent soothes him to sleep on difficult nights. He admits that he is embarrassed when Jaskier writes songs about him because he doesn’t understand why. Why has Jaskier followed him through all these years, why hasn’t he left like good things are meant to, why doesn’t he take up a position in a court like he deserves, why does he subject himself to this life, why is he always so kind to a monster, why, why, why.

Jaskier, though he does not know Geralt right now, is still there to offer him comfort. When the words that he rasps out sound rougher than usual, when the hurt is plain on his face in a way emotions only ever are when Jaskier is involved, when he doesn’t understand but he needs, he needs — Jaskier is there, a comforting hand with its lute-calloused fingers settling on his skin, light as a feather, solid as a stone, burning like the sun. Even now, knowing nothing but what he is — what they both are — and that something is missing, he follows Geralt, trusting him, comforting him, caring for him.

The time that passes only loosens the witcher’s tongue. It is as though a dam has broken within him, everything he tried to keep locked down surging forward like high tide, sweeping away everything that dares try to stop it. He has never been one to talk but now, now he cannot stop.

“I still regret what I said on the mountain,” Geralt tells him one night, knees drawn up to his chest. “You are the only constant in my life besides pain. You have been the only person who has stayed, and even then it was so frightening to me that I did not know what to do besides drive you away. Yennefer had just left, and I thought… you would be next, surely, and I was a coward. I could not bear the thought of letting you get closer only to leave when it would hurt the most. I thought that I could save the both of us more hurt if I ended things there. I was a fool. You did not deserve it. I was hurting, but I have hurt before, and I should not have placed that hurt on you just because it was a pain I was unused to.

“I have been left, I have always been left in the end — but not by you, never by you until I pushed you away and even then when I saw you again — you were there again as if no time had passed and I do not deserve you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s gentle hand rubs circles on his back as the confession lightens his heart.

“I love you,” Geralt says on another night. The sky is clear, the moon is nearly full. Neither of them needs the moonlight, but the aethereal way it makes his bard look makes the words come out of him, unbidden. “I have loved you and I have refused to allow myself that love but it is more stubborn than I am because it refuses to go away. You are kind, and warm. You hide your sharp edges under your softness, but you have allowed me to see that sharpness.

“It hurts, to love. Even still, I wait for you to leave, to finally accept that you deserve better. I wait, but I hope, and I love, and I don’t know what to do with all of it. For something borne of darkness, you radiate such light. You bring joy, and mirth. You and I are the opposite in almost every way but it only makes me love you all the more.

“If we can’t get your memory back…” Geralt sighs. “I try not to think about it but I can’t stop. If we can’t get your memory back, I will still love you, but it doesn’t seem fair to you. It is even less fair to you than it was before because there is so much I know about you, so much I remember that you don’t. What if I have to teach you everything again, and you want to be someone different but I try to make you into the person you were? I know that I would be so selfish, even if I tried not to — I tried to stop loving you but this selfish heart refused to listen.”

Jaskier will not remember any of this, he is sure. He cannot understand the words even if he does, even if they fix this, so as much as it hurts to allow himself this, he thinks it would hurt more if he didn’t. It feels like his only chance to say these words, when they cannot be understood, when they cannot hurt anyone but him.

The bard gets his attention with a tap on his arm, and when he glances over, it is to a wide, fanged smile. We will fix this, Jaskier signs, and I will remember you.

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As much as Geralt hadn’t wanted to count the days, or even to take note of the passage of time if he could help it, he is unable to ignore it after a certain point. He thinks that nearly a month has passed. In that time they have skirted towns, only getting close enough to complete a contract or try to subtly inquire after anyone that could help them. He has insisted that Jaskier remain at a safe distance, thankful that the bard doesn’t remember his usual love of finery and creature comforts.

It wouldn’t be strictly accurate to say that they have grown closer over this time; it’s more that they have grown close in a different way than before. Jaskier has always loved his flowery language, and while Geralt doesn’t really begrudge him that (except in jest, or in times of extreme frustration) it is almost refreshing to see the other laid bare like this. Their constructed language of signs and gestures is almost too simple and direct even for Geralt at times, and while he has found himself missing the bard’s easy chatter, it has never been this easy, this simple to communicate with him.

Part of it, he thinks, is that alone in the wilderness with only someone who cannot understand his speech, he feels as though no one can judge him for allowing himself to feel. He is so, so tired of trying to be the unfeeling thing that he had long since learned he should have been. At first the openness was terrifying, and laying himself bare like this had made him feel raw, exposed. Now, it is a comfort. He hopes that when they find a way to return Jaskier’s memories (because it is not a question of if, but when; it has to be, it simply has to be) he will be able to maintain the ease with which he shares his words and feelings now. He is still nowhere near Jaskier’s usual level and he never will be, that’s fine, but it feels freeing, even healthy to be able to express himself like this.

Jaskier, for his part, stopped being silent a while ago. While they can still no longer understand each other, and Vampire speech still grates on Geralt’s enhanced senses, he has found a way to make it work. Of course he has — even like this, Jaskier was born to speak and to sing. Rather than the aethereal screeching he had started with, the bard has adapted his speech to a sort of chittering. It is still sharp on the witcher’s ears, but it is also comforting, in its own way. It’s closer to the voice he is used to hearing, something in the middle. Perhaps he has adapted from hearing Geralt speak so much.

Geralt had, somewhat belatedly, expanded their potential list of people who could help them by exactly one: Regis is a higher vampire, after all, and if he doesn’t know what is wrong or how to fix it, he can at least translate for them. That is, if they can find him. Part of the trouble with his lifestyle, Geralt thinks, is that the people he knows are as likely to permanently settle somewhere as he is; that is to say, not at all. Freaks stick together, he supposes, and to humans, the only good freak is a dead one. Even those of his friends who do settle down do so in various safehouses around the Continent, not one permanent place. No one would suffer them as a neighbour for long if they could help it.

So, there are a grand total of three people in the entire cursed Continent who can help them, and they are all equally impossible to find in their current situation. This does not deter Geralt, he refuses to let it, and Jaskier seems only too happy to follow him as always.

Only, there has been a somewhat alarming trend lately, in regards to the bard. While the witcher didn’t want to admit it, he can’t keep ignoring the signs: Jaskier is slowing down. He is fatigued, he is becoming gaunt, the sunlight filtering through the treetops is bothering him more and more as time passes. He looks unwell, and Geralt is worried.

If it is some kind of curse that has stolen Jaskier’s memories, what if it doesn’t stop there? What if it takes more and more from him until there is nothing left? While there is very little that can truly kill someone like him, it is not impossible.

Jaskier often gives a half-smile, half-grimace, points to himself, and flashes a thumbs up. I’m okay, he is trying to say, but it falls flat more and more as time passes. Geralt is starting to feel desperate.

It has been almost exactly a month, and Jaskier falls to his knees on the dirt road as they travel. Geralt is by his side in half a heartbeat, trying to help him stand, but the bard pushes him back with shaking hands. There is no strength behind it, but Geralt does as he is instructed, trying not to show the hurt it makes him feel. He should have known that Jaskier would get frustrated with him, should have done more, should have found a way to fix this by now. He would push himself away too, if he were in Jaskier’s position.

He is shaken out of his thoughts at the sound of chittering and retching. Jaskier heaves and heaves, but nothing comes up. His claws dig into the dirt as he heaves and shakes and cries, and Geralt kneels next to him, rubbing his back in what he hopes is a soothing way rather than an upsetting one. Jaskier has just shaken him off, but Geralt will not abandon him when he is hurting, and if Jaskier does not want his comfort then he will stop.

But the bard doesn’t try to stop him. He wipes furiously at his mouth with the back of his hand, leaning into Geralt’s touch, and the tremors terrify the witcher in a way nothing has since he was an idealistic young man who had just left Kaer Morhen for the first time.

The bard gets his attention with a pallid, trembling hand on his jaw. He makes the motion they devised for Sorry, twisting his fist next to the corner of his eye. (They had decided on this because it evoked the mental image of a child crying and apologising for something they should not have done, and nothing else had made enough sense to replace it.) Geralt frowns and tilts his head, as they do when they are indicating a question, and instead of answering, Jaskier looks down at the ground.

Now Geralt caresses Jaskier’s jaw, requesting his attention in the same gentle way the other had to him. Big, watery, blue eyes look at him, and he tilts his head again.

Jaskier draws in a deep, shaking breath, and then lets it out in the same shuddering sort of way. With his pointer fingers, he makes an X over his mouth, indicating mistruth or withheld information. The implication is clear: there is something that he has not told Geralt.

It feels as though a thousand things come into his head at once, like a flock of wild birds, and he finds it impossible to catch hold of one for more than a fleeting second. Does Jaskier know what has happened to him? Is it worse than he had let on? Has he done something? Has something been done to him?

Whether the bard can sense his anxiety or sees it on his face or simply knows Geralt well enough to know that his thoughts are racing towards all the worst possible conclusions, he cannot say. Jaskier frowns and points at Geralt, taps his temple, then shakes his head ‘no’. It’s not what you’re thinking.

Geralt clasps his hands, saying Please, because he needs to understand, needs to know what Jaskier isn’t telling him, and the other chitters something before sighing and nodding, as if to agree to tell him.

Slowly, Jaskier points to himself, then taps his fangs. He points to the sky, then makes an arcing motion to indicate the passage of time. Then, he places his hands around his own throat.

Oh.

Honestly, Geralt is relieved. He can’t help but heave out a laugh, though it can hardly be called that; it’s more of a desperate wheeze. He points to Jaskier and makes a hooked shape and a sort of digging motion with his fingers, pressing them repeatedly to his curled thumb — it is similar to the talking motion, but with his fingers bent rather than straightened it indicates biting, chewing, or eating — and then points to himself. You can bite me.

Jaskier shakes his head ‘no’, looking almost horrified at the concept, and Geralt does not understand why. Is he so repulsive that Jaskier wouldn’t be able to stomach his blood to save his life? They are friends, yes, but everyone has their limits with what they’ll tolerate from a witcher — Geralt just hadn’t thought that he would find Jaskier’s limit like this.

Apparently the bard is a mind reader (because the thought that he wears his emotions plainly enough for Jaskier to catch on to them is not one that sits well with him). Again he frowns and shakes his head, tells Geralt that he is thinking the wrong thing. He points to himself, shakes his hand like one might when accidentally burning their fingers, points to Geralt, and shakes his head ‘no’. I don’t want to hurt you.

It’s the opposite of what he had been thinking and even stupider than he’d feared. Geralt should have known that he would need to feed — everything needs sustenance, after all. The fact that he has been holding himself back just because he was afraid of hurting Geralt — it warms and breaks his heart in equal measure. Jaskier could never hurt him — not because he is physically unable, but because Geralt knows him, even like this, and he would never allow it of himself. He realises that even if the other did hurt him, he wouldn’t mind it — and it should terrify him, but there’s a large part of him that had already known that for decades now. He finds that, now that he’s aware of it, it’s no more alarming than knowing the sun will continue to rise in the morning and set at night; it simply is.

He points to Jaskier and waves his own hand as if burnt — You are hurt. He points to himself; then places one hand overtop the other in front of him, palms up, and brings them towards his chest; and then points at Jaskier. Let me help you. He clasps his hands together again, Please.

This seems to be enough to break the vampire’s resolve. He allows himself another moment to struggle against himself before he sighs and nods. Geralt gestures to the trees and then picks him up bridal style — slowly, so as to not startle him — taking them off of the road on the off chance that someone will stumble across them this late at night. It is not a risk that he wants to take, no matter how slim.

Geralt sets the bard down gently in the grass before sitting down himself, and he keeps his hands spread on top of his knees, palms-up, to indicate that he can be positioned in whatever way is easiest.

It is almost startling when he ends up with a lap full of bard, hot breath ghosting across his neck. Belatedly, he realises that the other is scenting him, breathing in the smell of his skin over his pulse point. In this near-starved state he must be able to smell Geralt’s blood vividly, and the witcher can’t suppress a shudder at the unexpected spike of arousal that shoots through him because of it.

Jaskier pauses, perhaps misunderstanding his reaction, and Geralt finds he can no longer stand the hesitation. His hand cups the back of the other man’s head and gently holds him close, tilting his own head — not in a question, this time, but in offering.

Finally, he feels the sharp sting of fangs piercing his throat, and he shudders again. Whatever he might have expected if given the chance, he is sure he never could have come up with this. He has no poetic descriptors, no purple prose to describe the sensation — that is still firmly Jaskier’s area of expertise, and he thinks that the day he waxes poetic will be the day that the bard takes a silver sword in hand.

But this feeling — Geralt knows that he can’t do it justice if he is ever asked to describe the sensation, but it is good. It feels like there are sparks inside of him, stars exploding in his veins. All thought quickly becomes too difficult, so he simply closes his eyes and allows himself to experience this.

The weight in his lap and the mouth that moves, slick and hot and sharp, against his neck are all that grounds him in this moment. Jaskier is so light, but without his body on top of him Geralt is sure he would simply float away.

“Oh,” he hears, and it is a distant sort of sound, somehow familiar in a way that he can’t place. It is almost painfully soft; it’s like a hot bath after a long day, like lying in front of the fire on a winter’s night, like home. “Geralt,” says the voice, and he doesn’t know how his name can sound so beautiful.

He hears his name again, and there is a hand on his jaw, and it feels familiar — lute-calloused fingers and the scent of chamomile — and he opens his eyes.

Jaskier, Jaskier, he is there and he is smiling like the sun is shining from his face, and as Geralt comes down from this unexpected high he realises that something has changed.

“Are you alright?” Jaskier asks him, voice slightly rough from disuse — or, rather, a different use.

“Jaskier,” he breathes, “you’re back.”

“I am, my dear, sweet witcher,” says the bard. His teeth are no longer sharp and long, his fingers no longer tipped with deadly claws. His eyes shine with unshed tears and his lips are as red as a polished apple and he has never been such a welcome sight. Just when Geralt thinks that this moment could not possibly improve, that this must be a dream that he cannot bear to see the end of, those impossibly red lips descend onto his.

He tastes like copper and iron, which is not unexpected, but he is softer than the finest silks and Geralt doesn’t allow himself to think for once. He simply lives, feels, in this moment, committing everything to memory as best as he can just in case he can never have this again. This kiss, impossibly chaste, is the best he has ever had. He could end in this moment without a single regret, he thinks.

“Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs against his lips, and it sends a thrill through him to be able to hear and feel and taste his own name on the other man’s lips.

“Hmm?” he hums back. The smile that Jaskier bestows upon him is impossibly fond as he pulls back just enough so that Geralt can see his hands. He points to himself; places his hand over his heart, then curls it into a fist; and points to Geralt, signing at the same time as he speaks:

“I love you.”

Chapter Text

Thankfully, it seems things are truly back to normal. Over the past month Geralt had made a little coin here and there, but they had spent almost none, so they were fortunately able to stop at the nearest inn for a hot meal, a hot bath, and a clean bed — though, the bed had not remained clean for very long.

Another month passes them by before they see Yennefer. She is leaning elegantly against the wall as they walk into the inn, and that is enough to let both men know that she has been looking for them.

“Geralt,” she says in greeting, and then, “bard.”

Jaskier sighs, pretending to be a great deal more offended than he actually is. “You wound me, m’lady,” he all but whines, clutching his chest as if he has truly been physically wounded.

Yennefer, for her part, ignores him entirely. Instead, she is focused on their hands, clasped together between them.

“Yen?” Geralt ventures, slightly concerned; it’s not like her to pass up an opportunity to trade insults and barbs with Jaskier, and though it usually ends with them conspiring against him, he has had enough upheaval in his life lately to last him a long time.

“So, it worked, then,” she says in lieu of an actual answer.

Geralt’s brow furrows as he asks, “What worked?” but apparently Jaskier has already caught on.

“It was you,” he nearly hisses, and Geralt can’t honestly tell if he is legitimately upset. Just in case, he holds the bard’s hand tighter; they don’t need a fight between a sorceress and a vampire to break out in this tavern, and he knows that somehow he’ll be blamed if it does.

“You damn well weren’t going to get there yourselves,” she says, not sounding the slightest bit remorseful for whatever it is she’s apparently done. “Not this century, at least. I simply sped it along for you. You’re welcome, by the way.”

The bard splutters indignantly, coming dangerously close to the chittering noises he’d made when he’d —

Oh.

“Yen—” he tries, but Jaskier is already rounding on her.

“A solid month,” he hisses, “spent in the woods, confused, filthy, thirsty, and all you can say is ‘you’re welcome’!?”

She frowns at him. “You don’t mean to tell me you were starving yourself,” she says slowly.

Geralt looks around and though the tavern is mostly empty, that only means that the sound of their conversation will carry, and the subject matter is getting into dangerous territory to discuss in public.

“I think this conversation should continue in private,” he says pointedly, and they both look at him with an almost eerie synchronisation.

He would bet his medallion on the fact that he has told Yennefer more than once how much he fucking hates teleporting, but that doesn’t seem to deter her from waving her hand and bringing them to whatever house she happens to be staying at now. He finally lets go of Jaskier’s hand so that he can sit on her ridiculously plush settee and allow the two of them to work this out between themselves; he has long since learned that it is best not to get involved unless it looks like he’ll physically have to intervene.

“To answer your question,” Jaskier says without any preamble, “I didn’t know any better.”

“You should have at least had the instinct,” Yen says, frowning at him like she’s missing something.

“We didn’t go near any place that might have humans.”

“Then you should have been able to break the curse within a week,” she tells him. “You said a month had passed.”

Jaskier looks away, and he almost looks embarrassed. “I was afraid of hurting him,” he admits quietly, and the sorceress huffs out a surprised laugh.

“You’re both idiots,” she says. Jaskier’s glare intensifies.

“Pardon me for not having any memories or knowledge beyond feelings and base instinct,” he snaps.

Geralt, against his better judgment, decides to break one of his long-held rules of survival and interrupt their spat. “I have a vague idea of what’s going on, but the full story would be appreciated.”

Their attention is on him now, which he honestly isn’t sure he particularly likes, but at least they deign to answer him.

“Your little songbird was lamenting his situation to me the last time we spoke,” she begins, only to be interrupted by an indignant squawk from the bard.

“I told you that in confidence!” he all but screeches.

She simply shushes him. “Clearly that ship has long since sailed, so if I may?” The bard huffs, but allows her to continue. “Frankly, I grew tired of hearing him harp on about his supposedly tragic and unrequited love every time we got together for a drink, so I granted you both the kindness of my timely intervention.”

“What she means to say is that she likes getting me blood-drunk and making fun of me afterwards, but she got bored with her little game and decided to shake things up a little,” Jaskier seethes. He seems legitimately upset — not to the level that he is pretending, but enough that Geralt can’t help but take notice.

“So what, you took his memory?” Geralt asks. Really, getting a straightforward answer to anything from these two is like pulling teeth from a live troll, but he does his best.

“It was a simple curse,” she tells him. “Honestly, one can barely even call it a curse. It reverted him to his most basic mental state, as a vampire, and only drinking the blood of the one he loves most would break it. Then, while he was suitably inebriated, he would confess his feelings and you would be forced to acknowledge yours and all this ridiculous, exhausting pining nonsense would finally stop. Well, that was the idea, but of course you two had to muck it up.”

“Okay, first,” says Jaskier, “I am right here so if you two could kindly talk to me rather than about me it would be much appreciated. Second, while I appreciate the thought — at least, I think you had good intentions, by your standards — you can’t just go around cursing people into love confessions. That’s not how that works.”

“And yet,” she drawls with a self-satisfied smirk, “here we are.”

Jaskier sighs. “And yet, here we are,” he answers, unable to fight the smile pulling at the corners of his lips.